


king snow

by manbunjon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 19:48:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13130832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manbunjon/pseuds/manbunjon
Summary: Jon froze, his belly jerking as his greatest fear was realized. He prayed he was dreaming of crows again. “I…was…” he began, swallowing hard despite the dryness in his throat. “What…” He tried his best to sound nonchalant, feeling that thankfully, his arousal had begun to die down. Most likely it had been scared away, as his bravery had been. “What did I say?”“My name.” said Sansa, exuding a soft sigh. Jon’s hips twitched. “You called my name.”





	king snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rileymatthews](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rileymatthews/gifts).



> Written as a gift for [direwolfpupy](http://direwolfpupy.tumblr.com/) as a part of the [gotsecretsanta exchange!](http://gotsecretsanta.tumblr.com/)

Each evening as night crested the castle fell still and quiet and tonight, as the icy sun had long ago set, a spray of silver stars blinked back at them from within the cloudless sky.

Jon laid flat on his back, the furs that had been laid over his feather bed pulled to his chin. But he was bare beneath.

The fire that burnished in the grate flickered. The vicious heat the flames born did much to stave off the cold of the winter night that billowed outside, but little to dissipate the gooseflesh riddling his arms. The frosted panes of the window trembled, the build up of snow clouding the glass so he could no longer see outside.

Sweat beaded at his brow and rolled down the back of his neck, and though Jon would like to blame the red of his cheeks on the heat of the fire, they both knew he could not.

“Is this what you wanted?” Sansa sneered. Her head bobbed up from beneath the furs, her lips swollen red and her eyes dark with fervour. “To bed your own sister?”

“No.” Jon replied weakly.

They both caught the lie at once. Her nails raked down his bare thighs, making him shudder like a leaf in sharp wind. He had lost control of his body and long ago given up trying to regain it. He watched as his hand lifted on its own accord to fist in her auburn hair, leaning forward to claim her mouth.

She leaned across his body so that her legs could bracket his hips. Her lips were on his; angry, hungry, a wolf biting into its prey. Though Jon was sure prey had never before been so pleased to accept defeat. Her nails score his back and make him choke out a moan loud enough to be heard by the guards at the end of the hall, half in pain and half in pleasure.

Her head lowered, though her eyes did not release his as she planted a series of balmy, wet kisses down his stomach. His belly trembled, feeling her tongue follow the circle of his belly button and down the path of light hair that followed down towards his hips. Her tongue trailed over the exposed bones of his hip and he let out a strangled gasp.

He could only watch in helpless awe as her head lowered to graze across each of his thighs in turn before her nails sunk into the firm muscle of his arse firmly enough to make his hips jerk forward.

Jon awoke with a start, finding himself as breathless as he had been in dream and just as hard. Somewhere during the course of the night he had turned onto his belly, his cock straining against the featherbed. To his horror he realized that his hips had followed the pursuits of his dream, grinding absently against the sheets.

He felt the colour drain from his face as the bed shifted with the weight of another person. Sansa lifted her head, jolted awake by the sudden sharpness of his movements.

“Jon?” she breathed, sounding disoriented. “Did you have a nightmare?”

Her hand pressed to his shoulder, as it did each night when she was roused from sleep by the raucous of his nightmares, a typically successful attempt to ground him to the earth. He prayed to the Old Gods and the New that she would move her hand away. Just the slight pressure of her palm on his shoulder, even through the fabric of his askew tunic, was all too much.

Many moons had passed since Sansa had begun to take to his bed, sleeping close at his side each night. They had not been long at Winterfell after their successful siege when he had risen during the night, in search of a flagon of sweet mulled wine.

Instead he had found the girl wandering the corridors instead of resting. The hollowness of her face and the unfocused gaze of her eye betrayed her lack of sleep and he recognized it at once, a mirror image of his own tired features.

They had spent that night in the library, pulled close beside the fire with books in their laps that they never did touch. But it was comfortable, and that night and each thereafter Sansa and Jon spent the long nights in companionable silence.

Sometimes they took to the library or the study that had been thoroughly untouched since it had belonged to Lord Eddard Stark. Other days they rose to the battlements, still and slow, allowing themselves to inhale the fresh smell of the winter that had steadily begun to engulf Winterfell.

It was there that they had finally spoken about the nightmares they battled each night and the horrors that caused sleep to so completely evade them. He had told no one, not of the dark shadows that seemed to leer at him from the corner of his eye or of the light he had seen after he had fallen at the hand of his brothers. And she…

After the letter he had received at Ramsay’s hand Sansa had no need to speak the words and when she paused in her tale he did not urge her, only listened. His presence was a comfort, her mind regaling how his fists had beaten Ramsay Snow bloody and senseless.

Not long after she had taken to his chamber. Jon had sat beside the mantle in a leather-bound armchair. He listened carefully to Sansa’s breathing until he was sure she had fallen asleep, Ghost glaring vigilantly into the darkness against her belly. Only then did he allow his eyes to close and sleep to overtake him.

“Jon.” Sansa had breathed. Jon had jerked awake suddenly, panic stricken, but with a few words she had soothed him. Within moments he had bowed to her will, knowing that as she stood before him, soft spoken and undone, no man in his right mind would have been able to resist her.

Before long Jon had found himself beside her in his bed, furs cocooning them, the single pillow holding their heads nuzzled close. He could feel the warmth of her skin through her bedclothes, smell the sweet oils threaded into her hair. He was intoxicated by her, in sight, in smell, in touch.

“Jon?” Sansa repeated. He was drawn back to reality was a sudden wrench of shame in his gut.

“No.” Jon countered quickly. He had stilled completely, afraid that if he turned even the slightest bit Sansa would be able to see the stiffness pulling at his breeches. “No, I’m well.”

She did not look convinced, pressing a hand to his brow, as though testing the heat there. “You’re quite warm.” She noted. “Should I summon the maester?”

“No.” he returned quickly, insisting that he was well. Jon hauled the furs higher and turned his back to her, his painfully hard cock angled far from her line of vision. He prayed she had not been awake long. He prayed that his guilt was not written plain on his face, as he feared it would be.

They laid there for a long while, separated only by the purring direwolf betwixt them. The chamber was warm and dark but Jon could see the outline of Sansa’s body in the looking glass upon the wall and knew she was not yet asleep.

He was unsure how much time had passed before she spoke again. Her speech was low but held an edge Jon could not quite identify.

“You were speaking in your sleep.” said she.

It was not unusual. More than once had she found him thrashing beneath the furs, struggling to spar an unseen enemy. He had cursed at them, shouted at them, pleaded with them in muffled words she did not recognize. Occasionally he would speak a name: Qhorin, Jeor, Pyp, Grenn, Aemon. They were his brothers, he had told her. Not by blood as Robb or Bran had been, but when he had lost them it had hurt just as deeply.

Even Ygritte, a wildling maiden he had nearly taken to wed. He had broken his vows for her, Jon had once admitted sheepishly, his face pink with shame and embarrassment. But she was gone now too.

Jon froze, his belly jerking as his greatest fear was realized. He prayed he was dreaming of crows again. “I…was…” he began, swallowing hard despite the dryness in his throat. “What…” He tried his best to sound nonchalant, feeling that thankfully, his arousal had begun to die down. Most likely it had been scared away, as his bravery was. “What did I say?”

“My name.” said Sansa, exuding a soft sigh. Jon’s hips twitched. “You called my name.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Happy Christmas all!


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